


Your Deepest Desire

by agentmoppet



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blow Jobs, Daydreaming, M/M, Voyeurism, Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-07
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2019-03-01 16:23:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13298670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agentmoppet/pseuds/agentmoppet
Summary: Harry promises himself this will be the only time, but how can he give up what he always wanted?





	Your Deepest Desire

**Author's Note:**

> This is basically just a 3k word blow job. Idk. Enjoy

Harry barely even waits until he’s home before consuming the sweet. It’s chewy and tastes a little like cabbages, but he is already salivating the second he pops it in his mouth, eager to experience the latest ride that Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes has to offer. 

It’s only a tester—made possible by a slight defect in the latest line of Daydream Desserts. _Escape the tedium of lessons by fighting pirates, trekking through the jungle, or performing the latest rock hit with the Weird Sisters—whatever your heart desires!_ Except, it turns out that what most people desire is sex—not exactly the kind of thing you want to be experiencing in the middle of a classroom, and particularly not with the additional quirk the product has developed. 

When they realised, George quickly withdrew the product line and began tweaking the samples, muttering quietly to Harry and Ron when Molly wasn’t listening that he was planning on a new range for adults. Under the counter, so to speak.

Harry has tested the product before. He knows they’re safe, knows that the daydreams are perfectly within your control—they only ever manifest a scenario you completely consent to—and, even better, he kept a few of the testers aside for private use before the new line is approved and released.

He knows exactly what he’s going to dream about, now that there are no Weasley brothers waiting for his report with knowing winks and friendly ribbing. When he had been testing the line, he had felt compelled to daydream the most innocent of fantasies—strictly missionary, wine & dine first, Mills & Boon approved. Nothing that would mean he couldn’t look people in the eye afterwards. Now that he is alone, he feels no such obligation. And after the week that he’s had, he intends to make sure that for one magical hour at least, he can forget everything.

He shuts the gate behind him, still chewing on the sweet, and races up the steps to Grimmauld Place. When he reaches for the handle, he swallows and takes a moment to compose himself: eyes closed, a slight tremor to his hand that he wishes he was imagining. Then, he opens the door and steps inside.

“Potter?” 

The voice comes from down the stairs, in the kitchen, and for a moment Harry’s heart stutters. He thinks back to the last time he heard that voice, only hours before. 

 

_“Potter.” Malfoy sneered. “Much as I enjoy our catch-ups, do you think you could find it within yourself to take a break for a week? Do excuse my frankness, but I’m getting rather sick of your face.”_

 

Malfoy’s voice is softer now, gentle with tones of affection that Harry has never heard from him before. He closes his eyes and feels every fibre in him reaching for the sound, propelling him forward to the owner of the voice.

“I’m home,” Harry calls, his voice remaining steady even as his knees feel weak with the enormity of what he is pretending. 

He rounds the corner at the bottom of the stairs and finds Malfoy standing by the sink, looking at the dishes with a perplexed frown on his face. The fading sunlight barely makes it over the ridge of the window, sending scattered light across Malfoy’s face. The sharp shadows formed by the angles of his cheeks and nose compete with the more gentle shade of the leaves on the oak tree outside the window, and Harry can’t look away from the way it softens Malfoy’s features. Orange light glints through the glass, and he feels as though everything is caught in that moment of breath right before a sigh—the moment you allow yourself to relax. 

Daydreams are meant to be an escape, but this feels like coming home. 

“How do you make so much mess?” Malfoy asks, giving his head a little shake and finally turning to him with a strange smile on his face. “It looks as though ten people live here.”

“Just talented that way,” Harry says, the words coming in a rush of laughter. “Are you hungry?” 

Malfoy shook his head, but his eyes are heated as they come to rest on Harry’s lips. “Are you?” 

A stab of want hits him straight in the gut, and he has to force himself to remember that anyone who walks into the room can see what he sees; he needs to ward the house before he goes too far and someone unwittingly gets a front row seat to his deepest desires.

George had considered removing the flaw while enhancing the tactility of the experience, but strangely enough, it was harder to give yourself over to the daydream when it was limited to the mind’s eye and invisible touches. It was too obviously fake. When the vision was right there in the room with you, it was easier to lie to yourself, to pretend that what was happening was real. All the product testers had unanimously agreed that it was worth the risk of exposing yourself, and in a way, the increased need for privacy made the experience seem even more real.

With a wave of his wand, he locks and secures the front door. When he blocks the Floo, Malfoy looks up at him with a knowing, hungry expression, and he can’t hold back any longer. He crosses the kitchen floor and brings his hands to Malfoy’s waist, pausing for the merest fraction of a second before resting them there. For a moment, he is overwhelmed with the desire to just rest his forehead against Malfoy’s and stay there, breathing in synchronisation until the weight of the day has drained away, but he doesn’t do it. He only has an hour, and that tiny action feels like too much, like it might break him with the strength of how much he wants it, how much he wishes it were real. It’s easier to keep this daydream to something he might have a chance of walking away from. 

 

_“Nothing much has changed, has it?” Malfoy drawled, a critical arch to his brow. “Our friends might all be dating, happily putting the past behind them, but you’re still the same. You still think you’re better than me.”_

_“I never thought I was better than you,” Harry protested, running a hand through his hair and trying to focus through bleary eyes._

_Malfoy snickered. “Pull the other one. You took the moral high ground in school, and you’re having a damn good time taking it again. It’s just not on quite as broad a scale this time.”_

_“There’s nothing immoral about what you’re doing.”_

_His words were met with two raised eyebrows. “Is that why you arrested me then? For being so very_ moral _?”_

 

“I want you,” Harry whispers.

The hitch of Malfoy’s breath nearly unravels him. It’s so real, so believable, that for a moment he questions his own sanity. Then he pushes it aside and gives in to the moment.

He leans up, brushing his lips against Malfoy’s. They’re warm and full, and for all the hundreds of flowery descriptions he’s read in romance novels, they taste like skin. It’s intoxicating. Pressed so close together, he can smell the subtle scent that is uniquely Malfoy—no cologne, no deodorant, just him, clean and rich. 

Malfoy gasps beneath him, his own lips parting at the same time Harry’s do, their tongues sliding together as they explore each other, slow and unhurried. For a moment, he finds it strange. The man in his daydream has been with him for years. They live together, have spent hours reconciling the past with the present between these walls. This man before him is enraptured, almost hesitant despite his clear desire. He touches Harry like it is the first time, like each touch means something new and thrilling. Harry pushes the confusion aside; he isn’t complaining.

 

_“Just sign the forms, Malfoy. Then you can go.”_

_“I want your word that I’m not going to get pulled in again.”_

_“You know I can’t give you that. If you’re going to act drunk and disorderly outside a strip club, the lads are going to bring you in. There’s nothing I can do about that; I can only get you out again.”_

_Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Yes, you love to do that, don’t you, Saint Potter? You love to have me at your mercy.” He flicked a glance over Harry’s body, pausing in two places: his mouth and his cock._

_Harry pushed aside a surge of unprofessional desire. “No, Malfoy, I don’t. I just want you to stop drawing attention to yourself. You’re doing so well now. Why do you keep cocking up?”_

_Malfoy bit his lip and leered. “Perhaps I just like an excuse to see you.”_

 

He wants to push Malfoy back down on the table, to take him apart with his lips and his tongue, but before he has the chance to do so, Malfoy drops to his knees. His fingers are shaky as they unbutton Harry’s trousers, shoving the fabric aside so haphazardly Harry is sure a cheaper material would have torn. When he reaches for Harry’s pants, he pauses, breath coming visibly shallow and harsh. He wets his lips. Then, very carefully, almost reverently, he pulls Harry’s pants down to meet his trousers around his thighs. 

Harry’s head drops back involuntarily at the soft moan that falls from Malfoy’s lips. In that second of distraction, when he is staring at the ceiling and wondering if he has taken the first step down the road to madness, he feels soft lips close around him.

He gasps, the sound loud in the quiet kitchen which usually hears only the dull sounds of domestic routine. He’s sure that in all the centuries of Blacks that have lived here, it has never experienced anything like the desperate moaning he is making right now. The ceiling is higher than an average house, even on the lower levels, and soon his gasps and pleas are echoing back to him until they are both surrounded by the inescapable sounds of Harry’s pleasure. 

All at once, Malfoy pulls away, steadying himself against Harry’s hips and looking up at him. His breath comes in rough pants, and his pupils are blown wide with lust. Yet, the expression on his face is not one that Harry would imagine on a familiar lover; it is shocked, rapturous, and a slow flush creeps along his neck and chest. 

“Are you always so loud?” he asks, incredulous. “I never—” he breaks off and shakes his head, and for a moment, Harry is confused. This doesn’t fit his day dream. 

But then Malfoy licks a long stripe down the underside of his cock, caressing the tip with reverent care. It sends a shiver running through Harry’s stomach straight down to his knees so that he has to grip the table just to maintain his stance. He feels Malfoy’s lips curve into a wicked smile around his cock, and when he chances a glance down, he finds Malfoy staring straight back up at him, just as proud and haughty on his knees as if he were glaring at Harry from the other side of an interrogation table. 

 

_“You know you don’t need to do this.” Harry slid a glass of water across the table to Malfoy, who ignored it. “So why do you refuse to change?”_

_“Why, precisely, do I not need to do this?” Malfoy asked, crossing his legs. “What advice does the Saviour have for me today?”_

_“Stop calling me that,” Harry snarled._

_“Stop trying to save me.”_

_Harry took a deep breath and counted to ten. “You don’t need to keep acting like you’re a mess, for fuck’s sake. Stop getting drunk on the streets. Stop getting up on fucking stage with the strippers. I know what you do now, Malfoy. It’s not as secret as you think it is; you can stop pretending this is all you are.”_

_Malfoy’s eyes turned cold. “Tell me, then, since you know so much. What do I_ do _?”_

_“You funded all those charities. They’re thriving. Why do you keep acting like you’re nothing but a rich, drunk playboy when you’re really a decent person?”_

_“Has it occurred to you that I can be both?”_

 

It’s too much: the sounds Malfoy is making, the way his left hand grips Harry’s hip so hard he is sure there will be bruises afterward, the way his right hand slides, tantalisingly slow, along Harry’s slick cock. It is going to send him over the edge far sooner than he intends. 

He slides his fingers through Malfoy’s hair and silently promises not to be rough. But then Malfoy moans and pulls Harry closer, wordlessly begging him to take control. He obliges. Slowly, he threads his fingers through the soft, blond strands and thrusts into Malfoy’s eager mouth. 

Their eyes meet, and something in them makes Harry’s chest tighten with grief. The expression there isn’t only heated with lust; it is warm and open in a way that is nothing like how Malfoy really looks at him, and everything like how Harry wishes he would. 

It isn’t enough to have this and nothing more. He had thought that if it was only sex, it would be just like every other time he had brought himself off to the thought of haughty lips and an accent like cut glass. But it isn’t; it is so much more. His deepest desires run so much deeper than sex, and now that he knows what he is missing, he can’t possibly pretend anymore.

 

_“You look like a man who could do with an escape,” Malfoy suggested haughtily, sticking his feet up on the table and pretending to contemplate the ceiling. “Weren’t you lot all testing out those new Weasley Wank fantasies? Pans won’t stop rabbiting on about them.”_

_Despite his deliberately casual demeanour, there was an air of anticipation to his words that made Harry think Malfoy was more interested than he wanted to seem._

_“They’re not wank fantasies,” he protested, making a mental note to tell Ginny to curb her girlfriend’s enthusiasm. “They’re just daydreams. You can do whatever you want with them.”_

_“And what is it that you want, Potter?”_

_He ignored the deliberate meaning behind the words and concentrated on finishing the paperwork so that Malfoy could go free._

_“What are you going to daydream about?” Malfoy repeated, undeterred. “What is it that gets the Chosen One hard?”_

_“Malfoy,” he growled warningly._

_“Calm down.” He barked a laugh. “I’m only curious. Pans refuses to share.”_

_Harry snorted. “Tell you what, I’ll give you some next time you’re arrested. I’ve got a ton of them in the kitchen at home.”_

_Malfoy bared his teeth. “I look forward to it.”_

 

Even as he continues to thrust, unable to look away from the eager desire in Malfoy’s eyes, he promises himself he will never do this again. Malfoy’s lips are slick with his own saliva now, the quick slide of his head as he bobs on Harry’s cock becoming sloppy, impatient. He pulls his hand away, both hands now resting on Harry’s hips, and closes his eyes. It is so clear that he is giving himself over to it, to the taste and feel of Harry’s cock, that Harry quickly feels his balls begin to tighten, his orgasm rushing upon him. 

Just before it hits, his eyes fall on an empty sweet wrapper on the floor. It is innocuous enough—a brightly coloured square of plastic like any other—but Harry recognises it instantly. It matches the one in his shirt pocket, the one he can feel crinkling beneath his fingertips. 

His eyes widen as he remembers Malfoy’s parting words, just before he left the Ministry that afternoon.

 

_“Working late again, Potter?”_

_“Like always.”_

 

Except he hadn’t. He’d gotten away early because the file clerk had stuffed up, and the department wasn’t able to release any paperwork until the morning. 

He’d gotten home early and found Malfoy in his kitchen mere seconds after he had eaten the Daydream Dessert. They usually take up to ten minutes to take effect. And Malfoy hadn’t bolted or hastened to make excuses. He had been expecting Harry. 

He makes a noise at the back of his throat, part whimper, part gasp that is full of such yearning that he immediately longs to take it back. Malfoy’s eyes snap open. For a moment, his face flickers with confusion, and then he pulls away, just enough that his lips still brush across the end of Harry’s cock. He turns, his eyes landing on the wrapper that has captured Harry’s attention. Everything stills, the fading light in the kitchen casting shadows across Malfoy’s face so that Harry can’t quite see what his expression is. 

When he finally turns back around, his eyes are wide; Harry thinks he can see shock and fear there, but there is something else too: longing. 

“It’s—” Malfoy begins. 

“You’re—” Harry speaks over him.

They stare at one another. In the span of several heartbeats, Harry imagines Malfoy storming out, pushing him away, even hurting him in the sudden onslaught of fear and insecurity that could so easily guide his next moves. He holds his breath, fingers still loosely grasping Malfoy’s hair, too scared to pull them away. 

Then, slowly, never taking his eyes from Harry’s, Malfoy lowers his mouth and slides his lips, centimetre by glorious centimetre, back down Harry’s cock. 

Harry cries out, gripping Malfoy’s hair so tightly it must hurt, but from the sounds it draws forth, Malfoy isn’t complaining. Never in his wildest dreams had Harry allowed himself to imagine these filthy noises, but the realisation of what is actually happening right now seems to have broken something inside of Malfoy. His perfect restraint has gone, and he moans, long and loud, as he sucks and licks Harry, keeping him right on the edge. 

Something catches his eye, and he focuses on a movement he hadn’t noticed before. It takes him a second to recognise it, but when his mind finally registers the sight of Malfoy’s hand inside his designer trousers, whipping furiously over his own cock, he finally spills over the edge, gripping Malfoy’s hair tightly and gasping for breath. 

He hears whimpering, and he forces himself to open his eyes and look down. Malfoy’s eyes are fixed on him, glazed and dark, and his cheeks are ruddy with exertion. His hand is slightly obscured by the folds of his shirt, so he almost looks decent—a model-like vision of decorum but for the way his hair knots where Harry has tangled it and his red, swollen lips.

He runs his tongue along them, and Harry realises that they are just as shiny with saliva as they are with Harry’s come, and the thought nearly sends him over again. He slides his hand to the back of Malfoy’s neck, relishing the way the skin is slightly damp with sweat, and grips him, not hard enough to hurt but firm enough to hold him steady. He’s not sure what Malfoy sees in his eyes when he turns back, but something there makes his breath hitch, and then he is coming, thrusting into his own hand and crying out.

Harry doesn’t know how long they rest like that, each of them spent and a little broken, but he knows he’s not the only one slowly being filled with a tentative, new hope. He thought this was his Daydream come to life, but so did Malfoy. Though one question still remains. 

“Why the hell are you in my kitchen?” He leans back against the table, tucking himself back into his pants but leaving his trousers undone. 

Malfoy stands slowly, his eyes lingering on Harry’s open fly. “I would have hoped that would be obvious.” He leers at Harry, but it’s a little unsure, still with a hint of fear. 

Harry rolls his eyes. “I mean before that.” 

“You said you kept those sweets here.” Malfoy clears his throat, and Harry feels a lingering stab of desire at how hoarse he sounds. “And I thought you’d be home later. I was going to take a few home with me, but my curiosity got the better of me, I’m afraid.”

Harry supposes he’s not really one to talk; he couldn’t even wait until he was inside before he ate his own. 

“So…” he begins.

“So,” Malfoy agrees. 

They eye each other, wary and reluctant, but the uncharacteristic openness is still there between them. It gives Harry hope. 

“Would you like to stay for dinner?” he asks, his heart warming at the way Malfoy’s eyes widen a little in pleased surprise. 

“Thank you. I… yes. I will.” He frowns suddenly, eyes dropping again to the sweet wrapper on the floor. “Why didn’t it do anything?” 

Harry grins, turning away and pulling out ingredients at random; he’s still in a bit of a daze. “I guess they don’t work when you already have your heart’s desire.”

He hears a faint snicker behind him, but he doesn’t turn around. Somehow, he knows the expression Malfoy will be wearing without having to see it. It will be soft and warm, gentle in the fading light of the evening. He will look at Harry with cautious hope, now that the first of the barriers between them are broken down and they can begin to be open with one another. It will be everything that Harry always wanted.

**Author's Note:**

> I've seen this trope done quite a bit and always wanted to have a go myself. Thanks for reading!


End file.
